Blood, Silk, and Magic
by DandyBoyDaniel
Summary: They weren't coy little women, coquettishly showing off their knickers.They stood like perfectly hewn statues in striking poses, exuding glamour, beauty, sensuality, and most of all, power. I didn't want them. I wanted to BE one of them.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I benefit monetarily from the abuse of J.K. Rowling's characters._

_Authors Note and Warnings: This story references masturbation, cross-dressing, and other themes and language intended for mature, adult readers. This story was inspired by "Identity" by creepylicious on Live Journal, as well as other fics, which I can't find again. I believe ff dot net disables any links to external sites, so you'll have to search for it. The initial absence of names in the narrative and the gender of the narrator is intentional. You may have noticed that the title of my story differs from the title listed for fear of it getting flagged. As always, reviews, especially constructively critical ones, are greatly appreciated. Dedicated to WhiteLiesAlbie and ScorHMalfoy on Twitter. _

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><p>"Blood, Silk, Sex, and Magic"<p>

He's slipping away from me like a silk scarf through my fingers. I could bind him with magic. I could tie him to the bed. I could do all manner of things to make him stay, but it wouldn't be real. I want him to _want_ to stay.

He was just a boy of eleven when we first kissed. Everything was new and exciting. To touch virgin skin with virgin hands; to kiss nubile flesh with innocent lips – this was our gift to each other. And through the years, I gave him my body to explore, to uncover new curves and lines as they emerged from pubescence, to discover novel ways to give me pleasure. In return, his body was mine to do the same. No gift is more precious and fleeting than that of a boy blossoming into a man. I was truly blessed.

When he made love to me for the first time, I had bled for him. We were fifteen. Pain never melted into pleasure, as we had expected. But I didn't let him stop, even as I cried – not just tiny whimpers of discomfort – I actually cried, with real tears that streaked down my flushed cheeks and instantly froze against my skin in the cold autumn night air. With his breath coming in white puffs, he panted and pleaded, "I don't want to hurt you, Snowflake. I love you too much," and he cried just as I did. Still I urged him on, deeper, harder, faster, proclaiming my love all the while. I welcomed all the pain, blood, and tears, for I knew that I would always be his, as long as I could still feel him between my legs for days after.

But, of course, my body learned to accommodate him. And instead of reinforcing his ownership with pain, he owned me with pleasure. We made love in secret – hidden in cramped spaces, contorting our bodies into unique shapes; silently in his bed while others slept nearby, biting our lips to keep from moaning, so hard that I could taste blood when we kissed; in the middle of the night on the quidditch pitch where we could fuck with reckless abandon and shiver in each other's arms until dawn.

It would never be boring. Or so we believed.

Even the novelty of fucking in a broom closet wears off after you've done it a dozen times.

He would never admit that things were getting stale. I knew him too well. He would love me and gladly partake of my body no matter how routine it became. But it could never be as exciting as the first time, never be as thrilling the tenth, twentieth, thirtieth time, even if it still made us come.

I first noticed the rift forming between us one night when I snuck into his bed to cuddle. We started to go through the motions of having sex, not because we particularly wanted each other, but because we assumed that's what we were supposed to do. The rift grew wider and wider, until sex became almost as banal and predictable as brushing our teeth.

We had been together every single day of every school year from our very first day at Hogwarts. But I found myself missing Albus Potter, even as he sat next to me in the Great Hall, holding my hand beneath the table. Even more horrible than this feeling, was the sense that Albie wasn't missing me at all.

Boredom makes one's eyes wander. I was sitting in the Slytherin common room with Roz Parkinson, resting my head on her shoulder as she flipped through a muggle fashion magazine. There was a highly stylized photo spread of models in fancy underwear. They weren't coy little women, coquettishly showing off their knickers. They stood like perfectly hewn statues in striking poses, exuding glamour, beauty, sensuality, and most of all, _power_. I was fascinated, deeply drawn to this power, ogling with mouth agape. I didn't want these women. I wanted to _be_ one of them. If I wielded even an ounce of their power, I could keep Albie – he would want me again, just like the first time I bared myself to him.

I became obsessed. It was a sick fascination. Every curvy girl I encountered, I wondered what lay beneath her school robes, fantasized about how she looked in her underwear. But I didn't view them the way a horny teen-age boy would view them. No, those boys wanted to get into their knickers. I wanted more. I wanted to get into their bodies, in the way one would put on a glove. I wanted to feel with their skin, move elegantly with their delicate arms, stalk like a tigress with their graceful legs.

Of course, I could never do that.

I'm a boy, you see.

It's not that I want to change my gender, nor do I feel like I'm trapped in the wrong body. I love my cock. I love what I can do with it. I love the way my cock feels, pulsing hard in Albie's fingers, gliding wetly through Albie's mouth, and that rare occasion buried deep in his arse. I enjoy being a young man, appreciate the entitlement it gives me in society, and revel in the masculinity I exude when I put on a tailored suit.

But a woman's sensual power intrigues me. I want her strength. I want her control. I want to command attention and inspire adoration the way only a woman can.

Ever since my first glimpse, I'd been flipping through the pages of muggle magazines like Vogue and Elle, poring over the Agent Provacateur and Victoria's Secret catalogues. Nobody around me seemed to find it odd. It fit their stereotype of homosexual men. But they didn't realize that I'm not a stereotypical gay boy. I'm not terribly interested in fashion. I'm a stereotypical Slytherin. I seek power.

Albie became suspicious. He thought my fascination meant I wanted to explore the other side of my sexuality. He even suggested giving each other a "free ticket" to experiment with a girl. I was furious and hurt. I'd never share my lovely Albie with anyone, especially with a girl. His offer only made _me_ suspicious. Perhaps my cock was not enough for him.

Over the Christmas hols, I took my obsession further.

Nanna Cissy still keeps a home in the East wing of Malfoy Manor, but she rarely stays there. Ever since Grandfather Lucius died, she's been globe-trotting. She has a villa in Corsica where she spends her summers and a townhouse in London where she spends her winters shopping and going to the theater. In between, she vacations all over the world. I knew she kept a lot of clothes and jewelry at the manor, but I had no idea what a treasure trove of designer luxury it truly was until I went exploring. In secret, of course.

After my parents and the twins were asleep, I snuck to the other side of the house and crept into Nanna's unoccupied room. Inside was an enormous walk-in closet that could fit my entire dormitory bedroom within. It was filled with gowns made of silk, satin, sequins, and lace, most of which were vintage and hadn't been worn in decades. There were shelves upon shelves of shoes of every style and color. Drawers held jewelry, mostly costume jewelry (her real jewels were in the vault), and various accessories – hair clips, belts, gloves. I spent hours just looking at everything, letting my fingers explore the textures, feasting my eyes on all that glittered and shined. I would imagine how my grandmother would appear in these clothes, how she'd stand regally, how she'd dominate an elegant party with her presence and style. I've always admired her strength and her beauty.

Soon, simply looking and dreaming wasn't good enough. I felt compelled to adorn myself with her clothes. I even felt justified. Were I born a girl, this would all be mine to inherit. One night, I carefully chose a gown – a silk dress of gold with spaghetti-thin straps at the shoulders, pearl beads and sequins along the bodice, and shimmery fringe at the bottom hem. The label inside the gown proclaimed that it was a Chanel. It looked like something Nanna Cissy might have worn as a young lady, perhaps to a cocktail party, maybe before she was even married to my grandfather.

I stripped down to nothing. It seemed silly to keep my boxer briefs on, something decidedly male, when wearing something so sleek and feminine. I unzipped the back of the gown while it was still on the hanger – the sound it made gave my cock an unexpected little twitch. I stepped into it, careful not to tread on the fabric gathered at the bottom, and felt the silk slide over my legs as I pulled it up – it was like being touched by desirous hands, like being caressed by a satiny ghost. I shivered with pleasure. I hooked the straps on my thin shoulders and reached behind to pull up the zipper. Then I stood before the large gilded mirror. To my surprise, it fit rather well. Of course, it was a bit loose in the chest and hips, but otherwise, it hung on my lanky frame nicely, giving me the illusion of curves.

My eyes started to tear up. I wasn't a wispy, gangly, bony boy that was too tall for his thin frame. I was beautiful. I _felt_ beautiful. Instinctively, I posed, smoothing my long fingers over the intricate beading until my hands rested on my waist, tilting gracefully to put my weight onto one leg, while the other leg angled out to the side, accentuating the gentle curve of my calf.

I was so giddy and excited, I immediately dipped into the drawers and pulled out a jeweled comb, which I wedged in my relatively long hair to keep it off my neck. I pinned my fringe back with bedazzled pins. The result was striking. The line of my neck flowed seamlessly to my back that lay mostly exposed thanks to the low cut of the dress. I didn't look like a boy in a dress. The features of my yet-to-fully-develop teenage body were soft and smooth enough that I was quite convincing as a woman.

I twirled and posed and postured in front of the mirror for what seemed like hours, giggling and pouting and smirking as if I were being photographed for a fashion magazine. Nothing had ever made me feel so beautiful. Not even Albie.

I poked around the accessory drawers in search of some matching gloves. I pulled on a previously unopened drawer and discovered row upon row of sheer, delicate silk in various skin tones. I carefully lifted one out of the drawer, revealing a thigh-length silk stocking. When I felt my cock hardening, I knew I was in trouble. Before I could befoul the Chanel gown with precome, I quickly took it off and carefully replaced it on the padded hanger. Then I sat on the bench by the mirror, naked, with my hair still adorned in jewels, and dipped my toe into the silk stocking. I watched myself in the mirror as I slowly slipped the sheer silk over my pointed foot, up my ankle, over my calf, and up past my knee, all the way up to my thigh. I let the elastic snap into place, loving the sweet little smacking sound it made against my flesh.

Merlin… That was sexy.

I did the same with the other stocking, but this time, I was aware of every move and every expression. I put on a show in front of the mirror as if I were performing for somebody – for Albie. I licked my lips and parted them, narrowed my eyelids, and gave my best _fuck me_ look that I'd ever managed.

Oh gods, I was hot.

I rose from the bench slowly, each movement deliberate and smooth. I stood and admired myself in the mirror. There was something about those silk stockings that made my normally frail-looking body appear powerful. It was a subtle sort of strength. I was fully erect, cock rising straight up from a soft nest of lucent curls, leaking glistening strings of pre-come like a thin pearl necklace. It was then that I knew I had it. I'd accomplished what I had thought only a female supermodel could.

The power of sensuality and beauty was mine. I was a goddess. A goddess with a cock.

I gently took the corner of my bottom lip between my teeth and looked at myself with hooded eyes – lashes fanning out like a faintly visible curtain. I bit down hard, hoping to bring a bit of color to my lips, but drew blood. I smeared it over my lips and made them rosy. I took my cock into my hand and stroked myself languidly. Feeling dizzy, I sat back down on the bench. I let my silken legs slide against each other, marveling at the sensual smoothness as I fisted my cock, firmly and slowly.

I allowed myself to moan – such a rarity after always hiding. It wasn't the shameful, carnal grunt that usually escaped my lips when Albie fucked me on the quidditch pitch. It was all part of the act. It was a sexy little sound, rumbling deep in my throat, like the purr of a big cat.

As I came, spewing hot, voluminous amounts of semen over my fist, I thought of Albie. I thought of him, not as my teen-age boyfriend, but as my red, hot lover, and I as the physical embodiment of lust – the king, no, the _Queen_, of Desire.

When I returned to Hogwarts for the second half of the school year, I knew exactly how to repair that rift between me and Albie – with a little bit of blood, silk, sex, and magic.


End file.
